


Erasing All the Miles Between Us

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [4]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Emotional Support, Established Relationship, Five Times, Long-Distance Relationship, Love, M/M, Phone Sex, Skype Sex, references to Ronan’s work but not to the specifics of the reporting, unedited chatfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 21:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Five times Ronan and Lovett made long-distance work, and one more.





	Erasing All the Miles Between Us

It takes Lovett three days to find the right time to call, after he gets the forward from Ronan about his acceptance as a Rhodes Scholar. Or, maybe: it takes Lovett three days to actually call, because he's not sure Ronan will answer. It's been two months of long-distance already, but DC to LA is one thing; LA to Oxford is another. This is probably the end, and for once, Lovett isn't ready. He's been pretty damned good at accepting endings: jobs, boyfriends, stages of his life. But this one—this one sucks, to put it bluntly. This one, he wishes wasn't over. 

He hasn't let himself think that maybe Ronan would call first: they'd agreed that Lovett would, and Ronan doesn't go back on his word. Lovett has been trying not to let himself think that Ronan has been using this time to firm up a break up plan, or hoping that Lovett will just, just, let things go quietly.

That's not Lovett's strong suit.

"Well—fuck it," Lovett says, out loud, and then starts dialing. He’s long since memorized Ronan’s number; that seems like something that’s gonna haunt him, after. Lovett has a good memory for numbers, and he doesn’t think Ronan’s is leaving his brain anytime soon.

"Hey," Ronan answers, his voice thick with sleep. "Time's it?" It's only barely a sentence, and Lovett's flooded with affection, picturing Ronan's pillow-wrinkled skin, his soft gaze.

"Noon here, three in DC," Lovett says. "Were you asleep?”

"I was up till four," Ronan says. There's the sound of him rolling over, the muffled noise of his grunt to, Lovett assumes, push himself up against the pillows. With one thing and another they haven't spent much time waking up in the same place together but Lovett likes it when he can get it, likes to see Ronan unpolished and confused when he's just woken up, likes the way he always forgets where he's put his glasses.

He’s gonna miss that.

“You have the worst sleep habits of anyone I know, and I know me,” Lovett tells him. He goes and lays down on his own bed, eyes on the ceiling.

“Half the time it’s your fault, anyway,” Ronan says. “Your L.A. hours make D.C. nights playing multiplayer nonsense pretty frickin’ late.”

Ronan says “fricking” and “shoot” and sometimes “sugar.” Lovett’s pretty sure it’s a lifetime of media training, but it’s cute.

His throat feels tight, suddenly and stupidly. Long distance never works, everyone knows that. They've probably been lucky to get this long. Just—Lovett can't be the one to let this go, and he can't wait here for Ronan to wake up enough to say they should _talk_.

"I don't want to break up because time zones suck," he blurts, and feels, even alone in his house, his face go red.

“... uh,” Ronan says, belatedly. “Okay? I mean: okay. Let’s not.”

“We obviously should,” Lovett objects. He might have an opinion but he can face basic realities. “How long is a PhD?”

“It’s a DPhil, technically.”

"Ugh, academia," Lovett says, rolling his eyes even though Ronan can’t see him. "Fine. How long's a DPhil, then?"

“It’s not really the kind of thing you can set a clock by,” Ronan says, which is obvious evasion.

“So: years.”

“Well—generally, yes.”

“No one does cross-oceanic long-distance for years.”

“That’s an ahistorical position.” Ronan sounds awake now, and he’s talking faster, excited-lecture mode. “Our parents are probably the first generation to even think the concept would be a problem. Married soldiers have been going to war for years at a time since as long as there have been wars. Or marriages.”

"A DPhil is not a war," Lovett points out. "And we're not—it's not like we're married." He sounds like he's talking himself out of his point, can hear it in his voice. "Not that—"

Ronan seems to understand. "And for most of that time, no one had cell phones or, like, the internet. It was all telegrams and waiting."

"I'm bad at waiting," Lovett says. He _is_. But for Ronan—

“Okay,” Ronan says. “If you want to break up, then I guess—I mean, it, uh, it takes two to tango.”

“No, I don’t want to. You want to.” Lovett catches the ridiculousness of the statement as it leaves his mouth, but Ronan is already cutting in with, “ _I_ don’t want to—“

"Wait," Lovett says. He hasn't been letting himself think about any of this, not really, not what Ronan might or might not be planning to do now that there's a whole fucking ocean between them and not just the continental US. "You don't?"

“No,” Ronan says. “It’s good. I—you’re not like anybody else I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a pretty wide range of people, so, you know.”

“Well—I like you, too,” Lovett says. An alternate verb is on the tip of his tongue. He can’t say that on the phone, though. Except—they might not see each other before Christmas.

That's _months_ away, and Lovett feels it now. He feels the word, and the distance. If he closes his eyes for a second, it's almost like Ronan is here, breathing by him in the bed, and it gives Lovett the push to say—"I, uh," and then, biting his lip. "I love you." He has to barrel on before Ronan can say anything, unaccountably nervous despite every rational part of him knowing there's no need. "So, uh, I'm glad you don't want to break up."

“Me too,” Ronan gets out, squeezed in before Lovett can launch into another sentence. “I mean, both things. I’m glad you don’t want to break up, and also—yeah.”

“‘Yeah,’” Lovett mocks, feeling suddenly high, floating on the relief and excitement. “‘Yeah,’ he says. The articulate Ronan Farrow, scion of the State Department, prodigy of—“

“I love you, too,” Ronan interrupts. “You’re ridiculous, by the way. And you weren’t going to land the alliteration on that second clause.”

“Prodigy of Pennsylvania Avenue,” Lovett finishes, triumphant.

“State’s on C Street, as you very well know. Nice try.”

"Curses," Lovett says. He can't stop smiling, feels it pushing his cheeks up. He hasn't opened his eyes yet, caught up in the moment. Like this, it's just the two of them and nothing else, no geography or logistics or responsibilities. "Foiled again."

"The scion of the State Department'll do that to you," Ronan agrees.

"Whatever. I'm the, the wonder of West Hollywood." There: that one was good. Ronan laughs, easy, like maybe he's feeling good, too. "We start shooting next week. Did I tell you I'm directing at least one? Like I know anything about directing, but apparently in Hollywood you get to fail upward."

"You'll be great," Ronan says. "Just channel your inner control freak."

"I'd rather channel your inner control freak, ideally," Lovett tells him, letting a dirty smirk into his voice. "That's probably not work-appropriate motivation, though, is it, if my directing method is based on my boyfriend's buttoned-up toppiness."

Ronan snorts. "I don't know," he says. "It's probably a transferable skill. An imitable transferable skill. You'll do great."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or narcissism," Lovett says. "But I'll take it."

He knows before Ronan speaks that he's going to say, "You _have_ ," in just as dirty a smirking voice, and just—

Ronan loves him, and they're making this work. Fuck distance.

“And will again,” Lovett says. “At, say, Christmas?”

Ronan coughs. “We get a week in early November, actually. For studying, but—flights aren’t bad.”

Lovett bets they’re awful, actually. But dating a trust-fund kid with a work ethic that’s well into the masochism range has perks. “For you to come here or for me to go there? Or are we meeting in the middle of the Atlantic?”

He hears Ronan swallow. "I’ll come there. But, actually," Ronan says, and he sounds unaccountably nervous. Ronan hardly ever sounds nervous. Lovett curls up a little around the phone, like that's going to help, like somehow Ronan will know. "I was wondering if... you'd like to come out to the farm with me? Over the holidays?"

“The farm?” Lovett asks, and then he gets it. “Oh, the—your mom’s place? Or do you just secretly own a farm in, like, Iowa—“

“My mom’s place,” Ronan interrupts. There’s a laugh in his voice. “Iowa? Is that just your only point of reference for the concept of farms?”

"I've seen farms," Lovett protests. "I've... seen them from plenty of windows. Numerous. I'm very familiar with the, the concept of them."

"Mom'll love that," Ronan says. "She likes showing people around. Did I tell you there's a lake?"

"There's a _lake_?" Lovett can't help the way his voice pitches up. "A farm and a lake. What else, cows?" 

Ronan chuckles, low and contented. “I had a cow, actually. I begged for one. I was about ten and I’d just read about how Barbara Woodhouse had a pet cow she rode and took on vacations to the seaside. It seemed like the coolest thing in the world.”

“Was the cow sad when you went to college?” Lovett asks, wanting to cover how incredibly sweet he’s finding the image of a studious, animal-loving ten-year-old Ronan. Although—maybe he won’t cover it. “That’s ridiculously endearing. Are there pictures of you and Bessie? Would your mom show them to me?”

"Her name was Petunia, actually," Ronan says, sounding a tiny bit embarrassed and a whole lot wistful, and Lovett genuinely almost chokes. "And there was, uh. Also Clover."

"Clover was also a cow? Or is this where I find out you had a pet unicorn, because I wouldn't be shocked."

"Clover was also a cow," Ronan says. "Petunia was lonely."

Lovett can relate, except—not right now. Not with Ronan's voice in his ear. "I'm gonna start calling you Clover now, you understand. No avoiding it."

"Okay, Petunia. Didn't you have pets growing up?"

"Well, I didn't have _cows_ ," Lovett says, still smiling. He can hear it in his voice, and no doubt Ronan can too. "No one has cows. No one gets cows for their birthday except you."

"Luckily for you," Ronan says, "yes, there are pictures." He pauses for a second. "Uh, that is, if you want to come to the farm. You haven't said."

“I want to be wherever you’re gonna be,” Lovett tells him, and then, to reduce the cheesiness a little, “Even if where you’re gonna be is some big cozy farmhouse with a lake and a live-in movie star, which sounds like a nightmare, frankly.”

Ronan laughs. "It gets cold," he says. "And drafty. And my mom is gonna want to give you, like, a family tour. And you're almost definitely going to have to hold a kid at some point."

"It sounds nice," Lovett says, meaning it. "It sounds just like you." There's a beat of silence, the two of them sitting with it, and Lovett imagines seeing where Ronan grew up, maybe standing by the lake together or whatever outdoorsy stuff people do. Being wrapped in a quilt together on a couch, with people that make Ronan feel safe. Ronan, who loves him, and trusts him with the safest space he has.

"I'm leaving State a few weeks before I have to get to Oxford," Ronan says. "So—you'll probably be working, but I can come to LA for a while, if I send my stuff ahead."

"And a bunch of weekends," Lovett says. He's got them plotted out on a real, paper calendar hanging in his kitchen, all the flights they've already planned out. All the hours he'll be able to steal with Ronan, from the other side of the country.

"Yeah," Ronan says. "The weekends, and November, and Christmas, and—we'll make it work. It is working."

It _is_ working. It's working in a way that Lovett couldn't really have anticipated, not just because of the distance but because it's his relationship and he is a component part of that. But this—what they have—what they're _making_ —

"I love you," Lovett says again, on a wave of feeling. He doesn't fight this one.

“I love you, too,” Ronan says, easier this time. “This isn’t going to be how all of our phone calls go, is it?”

“Not if you videochat me with your pants off,” Lovett tells him, grinning.

“Sounds like a plan.”

***

It doesn't matter how many times they do this: the sight of Ronan, pantless and grinning at him over Skype, never fails to get Lovett like a kick in the gut. A sexy, sexy kick in the gut.

His metaphors need work but he thinks he can be forgiven when Ronan is there looking like _that_.

“Long day at work, Jonathan?” Ronan asks, like this call’s just to catch up, like Lovett can’t see him peeling out of his shirt and skating fingers across one nipple.

“Very. TV is a hellish industry. Is it raining there?”

“It’s Oxford. It’s always raining. Take your clothes off.” 

Lovett wriggles out of his pants, leaving his t-shirt on. "What?" he says, at Ronan's raised eyebrow. "Do you have an objection?"

"You know I do," Ronan says. "Take that off too."

Lovett does, quickly, so he can get his focus back on Ronan’s image on the laptop screen. Ronan’s still just teasing himself, light touches around his torso. When Ronan brushes his hip bones—or when Lovett does, when they’re together—he always shivers, and it makes Lovett feel a weird combination of aroused and protective. He watches Ronan do it once, twice, and suddenly knows exactly what he wants tonight.

"Can you," Lovett starts, and coughs, and starts again. It's more difficult, somehow, when they're not together in person, to look at Ronan and tell him what to do, but Lovett's going to keep fucking going. "Keep doing that. Just lightly. The way I like to see."

Ronan raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? You feeling like a tease tonight?”

“I feel like you should give me a good show tonight,” Lovett says. “Have you tried out that toy I sent you?”

"Once," Ronan says. "And then I saved it. To show you."

That goes straight to Lovett's dick. Ronan's voice, so matter of fact, the quirk of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing. "Then I think you should show me, don't you?"

“Right now?” Ronan asks, and Lovett narrows his eyes.

“You don’t think you can tease yourself if you use it? Because I know you can drag it out for me.”

Lovett had, once upon a time, been near-silent during sex. With Ronan, even, those few months when they were actually in the same place. That hadn’t worked as well after he moved to LA, and these days he could pretty much teach a course in dirty talk. 

"I think I can tease myself just fine, thank you," Ronan says, pretending to be prim, and then Lovett gets a great shot of his ass in his underwear as he turns to get the toy out of his bedside drawer.

Lovett palms himself through his own briefs, just a little, so that he can watch Ronan’s eyes catch on the movement when he’s back facing the screen again. He likes the way Ronan’s eyes darken, or his tongue darts out to lick his lips, or he stares and forgets to do anything else. All the visible proofs of Ronan wanting him from halfway around the world. Lovett can’t feel Ronan getting hard against him, but he can see Ronan’s interest, at least.

Having Ronan look at him like that is heady. Having _anyone_ that hot look at him like that would be something, but Lovett has Ronan—his smart, focused, nerdy, sweet Ronan, staring like he can't imagine wanting anything else. Fuck. Lovett palms himself again, just for that, and hears Ronan catch his breath.

"You're still wearing underwear," Lovett says, his voice coming out scratchy. "You should—change that." 

“Slowly, I assume?” Ronan asks, already starting to peel down one side of the waistband. He favors tighter boxer-briefs than Lovett does, the kind that look like a second skin and leave soft red indentations around his hips.

“Wait,” Lovett says. He aches to touch those marks; he can at least make sure they get touched. “Pet the—yeah,” as Ronan anticipates the request, rubbing his fingers over the deepest, reddest bit on one jutting hip bone. 

Lovett knows just how that feels, the indentations on Ronan's soft skin, how it makes Ronan shiver, and squirm sometimes, grabbing hold of Lovett to stay steady if they're standing and Lovett has slipped a hand into his briefs, possessive.

Ronan's eyelids flicker as he rubs the marks. "Like that?"

“More,” Lovett says. He feels greedy; he wants to watch fourteen things all at once. This; Ronan teasing his nipples again; Ronan working the toy into himself. Ronan sucking on his fingers.

“Thought about this all day,” Lovett says, which they both know is a nice way of saying _thought about you during the twenty minutes I wasn’t focused on work._ But he knows it’s the same for Ronan. He’ll take that twenty minutes.

Ronan's fingers are still moving, and he lifts his free hand up to his chest. "Yeah," Lovett tells him, before Ronan has to ask. "Yeah, touch your nipples for me too. Show me."

Ronan does, gently. His voice isn't even starting to waver: that media training showing through in unexpected ways. "You look so fucking good," he says, holding Lovett's gaze.

"I think that's my line," Lovett says, but he knows Ronan can see how pleased he is, how easy it would be for Lovett to feel exposed, sitting in his briefs alone in his bedroom. How good it is to hear Ronan say he wants him, even if Lovett already, really, knows.

Ronan skates a hand across his belly, across the marks, and his eyelids flutter. It's a tease, still, but it's affecting him. Lovett loves this part, the way Ronan starts to get lost in it. He's into it already, when they start the call; they're both anticipating, usually. But there's a difference between Ronan wanting to like it, and Lovett actually getting to watch him start to need more.

"Take them off now," Lovett says, and Ronan does, slow but steady, peeling until he has to bend to tug them over his feet. It's awkward and unfocused and he almost falls over, and Lovett adores him.

Ronan gets back on the bed, making a little self-deprecating expression towards the camera. He's so fucking gorgeous, bare for Lovett. He's not made of muscle or anything, and he's so pale, paler after months in England, but he's _gorgeous_. And naked, which never hurts. Naked, and giving this to Lovett.

“You’re so hot,” Lovett tells him. “You’re making me so hard, teasing me like this.” It’s easy to admit; it’s not like Ronan can’t tell that Lovett’s cock is starting to push out of his briefs.

“Teasing _you_?” Ronan laughs, and skins his fingers down his thighs, spreads them and comes back up the insides, never quite reaching his own dick. “I think I’m the one being teased, here.”

"It's a perspective thing," Lovett says. Video chat like this is always kind of a tease, offering them something they can't touch, can't feel. Three weeks till they're next in the same place and Lovett can feel every day of them waiting as he watches Ronan tease the soft skin of his inner thighs again, trail his fingers over his chest.

“Get—get it out,” Lovett says, because there’s teasing and there’s teasing, and he wants to see more now.

Ronan looks down. “Pretty sure it’s already—oh, the toy. Hang on. Lube, too, or—?”

 _Or_. Or Lovett can watch Ronan getting it wet with his mouth, sucking on his fingers and the toy until they’re dripping, until—

“Get it out,” Lovett says. “But leave it aside for now.”

Ronan brings the toy closer from where it's been lying behind him, sets it down so Lovett can see it in frame.

"Suck on your fingers for me," Lovett says. He can feel himself going hot all over from saying it, from wanting it to happen. "Two. Get them—get them ready for me."

He has to touch himself now, sliding a hand into his underwear. He tries to keep his grip light, not enough to get him off, but Ronan smirking and running two finger tips over his mouth is making that fucking difficult.

“You have the best mouth on the planet,” Lovett tells him. “When you get here on the fifth I’m going to get you on your knees before you even set your bag down.”

He won’t; they’ll be hugging and talking eighty miles a minute and going for dinner to talk more, probably, and then they’ll have easy, tired sex in the comfort of Lovett’s bed. But it feels impossible, right now, that Lovett could have those lips in his immediate orbit and not need his cock between them, no waiting. 

Ronan's breath catches. "Keep talking," he says, and parts his lips, sucking the tips of his fingers into his mouth. He hollows his cheeks, showing off. Lovett can't do anything but stare.

"I, uh," he starts, and makes himself focus on what he's trying to say, "I'll—you'll give it to me the way you like. On your knees and making me take it, as soon as you're back."

"Yeah," Ronan says, and suddenly he's in charge, despite Lovett having started all of this. This works better for both of them, really. He licks the tip of his fingers and runs them over one nipple. "And you'll beg me for more, won't you? You love it."

"Love you," Lovett says, not contradicting, just adding. "I'll—yeah." Ronan raises an eyebrow and lifts his fingers back to his mouth, curling his tongue around them obscenely. Lovett's supposed to talk. Lovett's supposed to—"I'll do whatever you want," Lovett blurts out. "Anything you want. Fuck. Let me see—I want to see you with that toy in you."

Ronan sucks his fingers deeper into his mouth, lips pursed around them. Lovett bites his lip and squeezes his cock. He's not sure when he completely lost control of this situation, but he has no complaints. Ronan can throw him off his rhythm like no one else; it's half the reason they're still together, despite all the obstacles.

He can't help the sound he makes, sort of strangled. It's the kind of thing he would have been embarrassed about at the beginning of their relationship, when he was quiet in bed through sheer will rather than inclination, but that Ronan has encouraged out of him, wanting to hear. Dirty talk comes easier to Lovett now, but sometimes the involuntary sounds—it's easier when Ronan is here, to touch him and show him how much he likes it.

Ronan takes his fingers out of his mouth with a slick pop, eyes on Lovett. "You want me to put it in myself for you?" he asks. "Want to see me get myself open?"

 _Fuck_. Lovett nods, trying to keep his hand still on his cock. "Show me," he says, like Ronan isn't going to anyway, and Ronan spreads his legs wider.

Ronan's pretty into toys for a toppy guy; he likes to fuck, but he loves to have a plug in while he does it. It's easy, easy, easy for him to get two wet fingertips into himself, only straining a little to reach. Lovett can almost feel it on his own fingers, the way Ronan just opens up, the tight heat of his body. "That's so good," Lovett says, voice cracking. "That's so hot, Ronan, fuck."

"Haven't even gotten to the toy yet," Ronan points out. "You gonna make it?"

Lovett's gut goes hot, needy. They don't really do edging that much, and Ronan is more into being edged than Lovett is, but right now—right now, Lovett telling Ronan what he wants to see and Ronan telling Lovett what he's allowed to do while he's watching—that sounds really fucking good.

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe not."

Ronan gets it, that it's an offer. "You are," he says. "You'll hold off as long as I want. You're gonna let me put on a show for you, and you're gonna wait until I say you can come, so I can watch you."

Lovett breathes out, making himself loosen his grip on his cock. "Yeah," he says. "Whatever you say."

"That's right," Ronan says. Strain is starting to creep in around the edge of his voice and Lovett can't blame him. Ronan is as thorough at opening Lovett up as he is at every other fucking thing he ever does, so Lovett knows how good his fingers are. How Ronan is making himself feel.

“Let me see the toy now,” Lovett suggests, because he’s still calling the shots on this part. Mostly. “Use the lube, I want—want it to just slide in. Want you to feel it just going in easy.”

Ronan makes a reluctant, needy face as he pulls his fingers out; that’s not for Lovett’s benefit. That’s just purely real, that he’s getting off on fingering himself and doesn’t want to stop. “Gorgeous,” Lovett murmurs, not sure the laptop even picks up the word.

He catches the smile that slides over Ronan's face, though, small and quiet, so maybe he could hear it after all. Ronan's covering the toy in lube, making it slick and easy for him, and he gives it a couple of strokes, looking Lovett in the eye. "Easy enough for you?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Lovett says, and then pulls his hand out of his underwear, reluctantly, because this is going to be too good. Ronan’s face when he takes a toy is—well. Inspirational.

“It’s stupid that you’re still wearing those, Jonathan. Let me see.”

"You can see most of it already," Lovett says, which is true. He's hard enough that he's poking out of his underwear anyway, and with his hand jammed under the waistband, he'd have been giving Ronan a pretty good view. Still, he wriggles out of them, leaving himself naked on his bed, Ronan watching him from the screen with dark eyes.

"You're gorgeous," Ronan tells him, very sincerely and very turned on. "God. I love looking at you."

“Good,” Lovett says, “because I’m not going anywhere.” He’s learned, in the last few years, to hold on tight to what really matters. Ronan definitely falls into that category. The thought only gets him hotter. “Put—put it in now. Like I’d do it for you, before you fuck me.” 

"Jesus," Ronan says. "Yeah, that's—I'm gonna do that now, keep watching."

It's unfair that Ronan should still look so good even at the angle he has to twist into to line the toy up. Even flushed and starting to sweat, he looks fucking amazing.

"Put it _in_ ," Lovett says, heart pounding, "show me, c'mon," and Ronan slides the toy inside himself, smooth and slow. Both of them groan.

“Play—play with it a little,” Lovett gets out. It’s more of a leave-in toy, the kind Ronan prefers, but this wet, it’ll be okay. And Lovett wants to watch Ronan teasing himself—teasing both of them, really.

Ronan rocks it gently back out, twists the end of it against himself. He’s making faces, tensing and relaxing his mouth and forehead, and Lovett is transfixed by every part of the image of him on the screen.

“I need a better laptop,” Lovett mutters. “One of those, like, retina displays. 4K. I want you to look uncanny-valley perfect.”

Ronan twists the toy again, his breath coming heavier. "You should have one," he says. "Whatever you want." His cock, flushed, is twitching up against his belly. Lovett wants suddenly to taste it, to nudge his fingers up against the toy and to fit his mouth around the head of Ronan's cock, tight, the way Ronan likes to test himself with.

He has to touch himself again, can’t believe he’s kept his hand off his cock for so long. Just a soft touch feels too good to stand; he groans, eyes fixed on Ronan’s cock, on his flexing bicep, on the movement of the toy in his fingers.

Ronan's squirming slightly, rocking down onto the toy with small movements. It must be nudging at him the way he likes, pressure in just the right spot. Lovett could watch this for hours, wants it happening over him while Ronan fucks him, wants the desperation of Ronan pulling out when he's got Lovett on the edge just to remove the toy and sink down onto Lovett's dick, riding him for the half second it takes for them both to come.

"Tell me," Lovett manages, "tell me how good it is."

“God, Jon,” Ronan says. He rolls his hips again, fingers keeping the toy pushed up hard into himself. “Feels so good. Feels like—god, like if I touch myself now I’ll come.”

“Not yet,” Lovett says, almost a question. “Keep—keep showing me.”

His own fist tightens, needy; he has to make himself slow down, loosen up, not race to the finish. Not yet. Not quite yet.

It's an effort for Ronan to keep going now, Lovett can see. His movements are getting jerkier, less fluid. He's not fucking himself with the toy so much as he is rolling his hips down onto it, holding it steady. He's red-cheeked, the colour spilling down his pretty pale chest, and Lovett is _staring_ , spoilt for choice where to look.

"Look so fucking good," he manages. Going slow himself feels like the best kind of torture. "You look—keep showing me, fuck, keep showing me how good it is. I want to, wanna see you need it."

“You—too,” Ronan gasps. “I can see you, uh, taking it easy over there. Barely even—fuck, fuck,” his hand jerking away, fisting against his knee as he keeps himself from coming yet.

Lovett’s not sure he’ll be quite as able to control himself, if he takes Ronan’s direction and dials up the stimulation.

Ronan must see that on him, must see him waver between wanting to do what Ronan wants and doubting whether he can, because he pants out, "Jon. It's okay. Jerk faster, I want to see you desperate."

Lovett doesn’t make him say it twice. He bites down hard on his lip, starts jerking off in earnest, watching Ronan struggle not to come. Watching Ronan watch him getting off—it’s an ouroboros, a sexy ouroboros, like a digital 69.

Ronan says, voice tight, “Show me—let me see how much you want me.”

"So much," Lovett blurts. "Fuck, just—so much, I want—please—" The please slips out before he knows he's going to say it, and Ronan groans again, hips jerking.

"That's it," he says. "That's what I want, god, you're so—Jon, I'm so close, hold off for me, baby."

They're not much for endearments, but sometimes, times like this, things come out. Lovett feels like a stereotype for digging it so much, but _baby_ on Ronan's lips makes him need it even more. He clenches his jaw, trying not to come until Ronan lets him. Until Ronan's ready.

Lovett's fighting to last, but he's going to keep fucking fighting. "Touch—touch yourself properly," he manages. "Show me a real challenge."

Ronan's gorgeous face screws up as he gets one hand back under the toy, one—finally—on his cock. "Fuck," Lovett gasps, watching the way Ronan's stripping himself, the impossible hotness of the way he always twirls his hand. Lovett can almost feel it on his own dick, the ghost of Ronan's touch competing with his still-moving hand.

It's next to impossible to speak; Lovett gives up on sentence structure all together, just strings whatever words he can. "Wanna taste," and then, "So—fucking—you—" and, just as he's losing any chance at holding off, "Please just, please?"

Ronan gasps, and suddenly he's coming with no more warning than that, losing his rhythm and spilling over his fist. He can't even be done before he pants out, "Show me, show me," and Lovett's whole body tenses past any hope of stopping.

They aren't usually quite this in sync; it's deliciously good, coming while Ronan still is, both of them jerking through it as much as they can. Lovett can't completely focus his eyes, can't fully watch Ronan, but he can hear the way Ronan's dragging in air and the slowing movement of his hand on his cock.

Lovett lets go, finally, too sensitive. He's let himself splash his belly, because he knows Ronan likes to see him like that, and he resists the urge to grab a rag from the nightstand and clean up. "Fuck, that was good."

"So good," Ronan says. He sounds wrung out. Fucked out, Lovett thinks, and jerks with a shiver of aftershock. Ronan's watching him like he can't get close enough through the screen, and he looks like something straight out of porn, panting and sweaty and dishevelled, the toy still inside him and somehow more obscene now that neither of them is jerking off. "I could watch you like that all the time."

"You do watch me like that all the time," Lovett says, not quite enough energy left in him to make it other than a bland observation. "So that's good, then."

Ronan laughs, and then makes a face. "Hang on, I gotta—" Lovett politely looks off to the side while Ronan works the toy back out, the same way he would if Ronan was next to him. The thought makes him wistful. This part's always harder: they can have good sex, great sex even, from across the world. They can't cuddle, though, no matter how good their bandwidth is. Lovett's never been a massive cuddler; he likes sprawling out on his bed. It works fine for him, mostly, to sleep alone, to be fully independent. Just these moments right after, when he can't touch at all—those are the hard parts.

He wraps his arms around himself instead, tugs the duvet over his legs even though it's not cold at all. Something to hold, that will help. Something to weigh him down.

"You can clean up, if you like," Ronan says, softly. When Lovett looks up, Ronan's rearranged himself on the bed, the toy nowhere to be seen. He looks comfortable, like Lovett could fit himself up against Ronan's side with ease. "You look great but I know you'll complain if you have to sleep in a wet spot."

Lovett shrugs, but he reaches for the stack of cloths on the nightstand, dries his belly and his softening dick. He's tender; he should have gotten his own lube out before he went hog-wild with the jerking off.

He sighs, and just says what he's thinking. "Not getting to touch you sucks a lot worse after than during."

"I know." Ronan stretches one of his legs out, toes pointing. "For me, too."

The last time Ronan left, Lovett spent a week rolling over to sleep with his face buried in Ronan's pillow. He'd felt ridiculous about it and then discovered Ronan had appropriated one of his hoodies to smuggle back to England, like they were both acting out a romcom or something, except for real, a real genuine thing that was happening, like a touchstone, in Lovett's life.

"Three weeks isn't so long," Lovett says, trying to convince himself as much as Ronan. "That's—we're busy people. It's basically no time." 

"It's no time, but it can still be hard," Ronan says, gently. "Can I make a suggestion?"

Lovett makes a face, but he's mostly kidding. Ronan's already going, anyway: "Order some food. Put pants on. I'll chat with you while you play Bioshock Infinite for a while, and then the food'll arrive, and then you'll feel fine."

"Ugh," Lovett says, but he's reaching for his sweats again. "Look at you with your kind thoughts and good ideas. I thought they didn't encourage that kind of thing in England." He scrolls through a few different delivery options until he finds something that stands out. "I'm ordering tacos and I'm going to get the guac you like. Out of spite."

“You’re a monster,” Ronan says, deadpan. “Now get up. And as much as I’m enjoying the view, probably put clothes on.”

Lovett submits the order and levers himself up. “Tell me about your classes,” he says. “Is that guy in International Relations still hitting on you?”

Ronan snorts. Even that manages to be attractive, which, frankly, is just unfair. "I think he thinks I haven't noticed," he says, as Lovett grabs a t-shirt and shrugs into it. "I think he's trying to be more obvious."

"Oh my god, how?" Lovett says. He picks up the laptop. "Come on, we're going to the couch. What, is he going to start carrying around a sign?"

“Well,” Ronan starts, “you know how it’s a seminar set-up? So you have to picture like twelve chairs in a semi-circle ...”

Lovett pulls his clothes on, listening. Ronan’s right; this is all he needed to feel great again.

***

Shutting the door to his office really cuts down the amount of light spilling through into the main room, but Lovett is getting used to it now. Better that than staring defeat in the face every time he walks down the fucking hall.

He knows exactly the pattern he’s fallen into; it’s pretty recognizable. That doesn’t seem to mean he’s getting his way out. Just—put it off, feel sick and guilty, put it off some more. Somehow no level of roiling stomach and self-loathing gets him back in front of that taunting, empty page.

He hasn't told anyone about it, about what he's failing to do. He's pretty sure Ronan knows, though, or at least suspects: Lovett hasn't given him a straight answer about anything he's working on for a little while and, although neither of them have mentioned it out loud, Lovett thinks it's one of those things that they both know, the kind of thing that's waiting for one of them to push. Lovett doesn't want Ronan to push. He does want Ronan to push. He doesn't know.

He pauses mindlessly scrolling and just clicks through to call Ronan. He probably won’t be available, but this way Lovett at least gets the satisfaction of knowing he opened the door to changing something about his stupid—

“Hey, Jonathan,” Ronan answers, cheery and easy. “I was just about to send you a picture of a dog from the building. The couple in 512 adopted her, she’s huge.”

“Yeah?” Lovett’s not sure he remembers the couple in 512, but that doesn’t matter. “Send it anyway.”

"Hang on," and there's the sound of Ronan taking the phone away from his ear, and then Lovett gets the picture: the dog _is_ huge, a sheepdog cross maybe, shaggy fur and happy lolling tongue. She looks like she would really love the farm, Lovett thinks.

"Amazing," Lovett says. Even he can hear that his voice doesn't sound right but there's nothing to do about it except push on. "That's a lot of dog."

“So much. I had to lint-roll my whole outfit, but it was worth it.” Ronan pauses. Lovett doesn’t have anything to say. Or: he wants Ronan to hear the pause, maybe.

“What’s up?” Ronan asks. “Not just calling to talk about dogs.” He leaves it open to an objection, but it’s still a statement. He can tell something’s up. Lovett needs him to be able to tell something’s up. It’s not fair, maybe; long-distance is all about communication, avoiding assumptions, avoiding guesswork. But right now in this stupid hole he’s dug himself, he wants Ronan to just _know_.

"You don't know," Lovett still insists, just to hear Ronan laugh, obligingly. "I could be." He pauses for longer this time. "I—" it sticks in his throat and he rubs his hand over his face, slumping back onto the couch. "I'm fucking up."

“Okay,” Ronan says. He’s calm and measured; Lovett can picture him settling into a chair, focusing on the call. Staring out at Manhattan, maybe, if he’s at home. Lovett hopes he’s at home. “In what way?”

“In—you sound like you’re doing an interview,” Lovett says, a little too sharp. “You can just say ‘how,’ like everybody else.”

“Jon.” Ronan’s a little less patient now. “Getting pissy with me to change the subject is pretty self-defeating, don’t you think?”

"It doesn't make me any less right," Lovett says, but his heart isn't in it. He can't even argue his way out of this one, that's how fucking defeated he's feeling. He wants Ronan to know, he does, but actually getting the words out is even harder than he expected. What's he good for, if he can't write? What is he even doing?

Ronan gives him a moment, but when he doesn’t continue, says, “Give me a category. Is it about us?”

“No.” That one’s easy. “We’re fine.”

“Glad to hear it. Your family?”

“Work,” Lovett says. “Or—not work.”

"Okay," Ronan says, evenly. "It's about not work. You haven't talked about a project for a while; am I on the right track?"

Lovett nods, even though Ronan can't see him. His throat feels thick. Nothing makes him feel worse than inaction, nothing trips him as easily into shame.

“Dev deal’s folding?” Ronan asks. “Network’s calling it in?”

“No,” Lovett says. “They’re gonna, though, if—“

“Ah,” Ronan says, soft.

Ronan stays quiet for a minute, giving Lovett the space.

"I—it's been weeks," Lovett says. He can feel his skin prickling hot with horrible mortification. "I haven't—I've shut the fucking office door so I don’t have to look at it."

“You want advice or active listening?” Ronan asks, because he’s sometimes the product of two decades of on-and-off therapy. “Or, like. Some kind of external pressure to perform?”

“That one,” Lovett says, but then, “Not really. Well, not from you. From you I want—“ He doesn’t know. “Active listening, I guess.”

"Okay," Ronan says. "I'm listening."

There's no judgement in his voice at all, just warmth, and Lovett feels better and worse all at once. Ronan knows—but also Ronan _knows_.

"You know that thing," he starts, and falters. It's universal. Isn't it universal? Except Ronan's problems have never been related to— _laziness_ , to this kind of failure. Ronan overextends; Ronan doesn't stop dead in his tracks for no fucking reason. "Maybe you don't."

"Maybe I do," Ronan prompts. "You can tell me."

He can, he knows he can, but— "Don't—don't," he starts, but he doesn't know what he wants Ronan to _don't_. "I haven't been writing. I've been—not writing. I've been doing everything but writing and I know, I _know_ that I need to but—I just haven't. And there's no fucking _reason_ , I'm just—" his voice is letting him down. "I'm fucking up, Ronan. And I haven't told anyone one."

"You're telling me now," Ronan says. He really does have a good soothing voice. It's almost not even frustrating, he's so good at it. "You called me."

Lovett shakes his head, says, "That's not—you're different. You're not—it's not like _admitting_ it, when I talk to you. Not as much." It's been four years, almost; he's never been as close to anyone as he is to Ronan. Ronan knows more about him than his mother does. It's still an admission, but it's not like telling anyone else would be.

"Jonathan," Ronan says, softly. It's sort of a thank you, definitely an acknowledgement. Lovett grips his phone tighter and stares at the ceiling, swallowing.

"I should be," he tries. "I should—I need to be writing."

"Would you be," Ronan asks, "if you could?"

Lovett starts to reply and stops. He hasn't thought about it like that before, focusing more on what he isn't doing. He's not thought about _could_.

He can’t face that head-on, right now, so he feints. “I’d be on a beach,” he lies. “You want a kept man?”

“If I thought you wouldn’t hate it by day three, I’d consider it,” Ronan tells him, deadpan. “Try again, Jonathan.”

“Active listening my ass,” Lovett mutters.

He takes a breath and tries to come at it again. Ronan's patient silence on the other end of the phone is calming, steadying.

"I," he tries, but he can't get the rest of the words out, a sudden lump in his throat.

“I don’t want to go back into politics,” he says. “I don’t. It wasn’t—it was—“ He stops again.

“It’s okay, love. There’s no wrong answer.” Ronan sounds just like his mom, sometimes, when he’s being gentle; she calls Lovett “love” more often than anyone else in his life.

He doesn’t have _any_ answer. Not having an answer is definitely the wrong answer, and his heart is pounding now, face hot with—embarrassment. Anger, too, at himself, at the shameful stupidity of being—of being—

"I can't make myself do it," he chokes out. "I can't—what kind of adult can't fucking make himself work?"

“I mean, what kind of adult still cares deeply about air-type Pokémon?” Ronan asks, and it’s a sweet joke, a good one; but Lovett’s laugh turns into a sob coming out, like the emotional dam was going to break either way.

He doesn't want to be crying alone in his house. He doesn't want to have to crawl back to DC just so someone will make him do some fucking work. He doesn't want to feel like this, ashamed and tired and furious with himself. He sobs again, despite his efforts, and scrubs his hand over his face.

"Jon," Ronan says, quietly, and Lovett can hear him shifting in his seat a continent away. He hurts so easily with other people's feelings, once he lets himself. "It's okay. It's okay, love."

“It’s—really—not,” Lovett gets out. He can’t breathe enough to speak; his chest hurts and his throat hurts and his eyes hurt, and he can’t _breathe_ , and he—and he—

“I wasn’t sad when they cancelled it,” he bursts out, not sure it’s audible to Ronan, overlapped with the hitching sobs. “I was relieved. This is—this is my—“ _comeuppance,_ maybe. _Punishment._

"No," says Ronan firmly, like he can fill in the end of the sentence. "No, it's not." Lovett's hiding his face even though no one can see him, trying to gulp in air. He's been bottling this up more than he realized. "It's okay to be struggling," Ronan continues, and doesn't try to get him to stop crying, doesn't mention it, for which Lovett is hugely, profoundly grateful.

He gives up on words for a few long minutes. He hopes minutes; it feels long, much too long to just be loudly crying into the phone, not communicating anything. Ronan says a few things, quiet "you're okay"s and "I'm here"s, but mostly is just there, breathing.

Lovett eventually catches his own breath, trying to match Ronan's even in-and-out. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry, I'm a mess."

Ronan makes a soothing noise. "There's nothing wrong with not being okay," he says. He sounds like a self-help book, but it helps anyway. He always sounds so _sure_.

Lovett hiccups a laugh. “Maybe for a while,” Lovett says. “Not weeks. Weeks and—we’re not talking a fortnight, here.”

“I’m getting that,” Ronan says, gently. “You must have been so stressed. I wish you’d been able to tell me before now. But it’s good that you did it today.”

Lovett's face is a mess. He wipes at it with his sleeve, sniffing in hard. He doesn't often wish that they weren't so far apart—there are reasons, and it works for them both for right now—and he doesn't even know if he could have got any of this out if he'd had to look Ronan in the eye and admit it, but—god, does he feel the lack of Ronan right now, with just Ronan's voice on the other end of the phone.

“I did the—lashed myself to the mast a little, calling you,” Lovett admits. “I’ve been, uh. Too embarrassed to say anything.”

“I get that,” Ronan says. “And I know you know this, but just as a reminder: you don’t have to worry about that with me. I’m the captain of, like, team Jonathan. Founder, chairman of the board.”

Lovett's throat tightens up again. "You're mixing your metaphors," he manages, trying to move through it. "Am I a ship or a company? It seems like something the captain-chairman should know."

Ronan laughs, loud in his ear. “It’s a complex operation. Lots of angles. Jonathan Lovett is a multifaceted, complicated man to, uh, to nurture and support.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m easy as Sunday morning. Easy as pie.”

"Absolutely," Ronan says. Lovett can hear him grinning all the way from New York. "That's what I meant to say."

Lovett smiles into the air for a second, and then his gaze catches on the closed office door, and his smile drops. “I still—I’m still shredding my career right now. Like, actively.”

“Yeah,” Ronan says. “So ... seems like maybe this isn’t a career you’re really digging. Speaking as someone who’s switched paths a few times.”

Lovett sits with that for a minute. "It's—I really wanted to do this," he says. "I left the _White House_ for this."

“You—I’m leaving the area of active listening here, Jon, but you left the White House because you needed something new. And you found it, and it’s okay to do that again. You’re not—I know you, okay? You’re not lazy, and you’re not going to waste your potential. When you love something you throw your all into it. Admittedly in your own like late-to-the-office way, but you’re fucking ambitious, okay? If this was the thing you wanted to do, you’d be doing it, full throttle. I know that for sure.”

"But," Lovett says, automatically, and then comes up short. _If this was the thing he wanted to do_. "Oh," he says. He's not—he hasn't even thought— "Well, shit."

"Mm?" Ronan asks. "Which part?"

Lovett stares at the door harder. If he doesn't do this—if he does something else—if it's okay to just quit trying— "I don't think I want to be in TV anymore."

Ronan hums, an acknowledgement, and waits to see if Lovett will say anything else. Lovett's not sure he can. That was already kind of a lot, for one weekday afternoon. "Okay," Ronan says, finally. "You don't have to. You can do something else. I'll help you figure out what that thing should be, if you want."

Amongst everything else, Lovett gets this rush of gratitude for Ronan. Ronan, who never makes him feel stupid or too much; Ronan who listens to him cry down the phone and makes bad Pokemon jokes just because. "I'd like that," he says, finding the words. "I—god. Thank you."

“Anytime,” Ronan says. “Want another picture of the dog?”

“So much,” Lovett says, and breathes out.

***

"Fucking—" Lovett breathes, biting down on a groan, and hits redial. Ronan looks equally as flustered when he picks up the Skype call.

“I think the wifi is cutting out maybe. Sorry. Take—take your cock out, we’ll just try to—“

The screen freezes again. “Motherfucker!” Lovett seriously contemplates shaking his laptop. He needs this, goddamnit.

His phone buzzes—FaceTime. FaceTime! And Lovett isn’t even logged into the hotel wifi on his phone. He swipes to answer with his less-wet hand.

“You’re a fucking genius. This is why I love you.”

"Because of my ability to remember that FaceTime exists?" Ronan says, but he's smiling. Lovett's smiling too, almost desperately hard in his boxers still. It's an odd mixture of endeared and turned on but whatever, Lovett contains multitudes.

“Because you’re a problem solver,” Lovett tells him. “And because if I don’t get off in the next ten minutes I’m going to explode.”

“That bad a day, or that good?” Ronan asks, shifting the phone and starting to peel, one-handed, out of his shirt.

"Just—" Lovett gets his cock out, fumbling one-handed, like Ronan asked "—a lot of adrenaline and no, uh, no—"

"Release?" Ronan says, raising an eyebrow.

Lovett laughs, quirks his mouth to acknowledge Ronan’s got it about right. “You know, one-handed doesn’t seem like a big ask now I’m holding a phone anyway,” he says. “You wanna up the stakes?” Maybe it’s stupid; he does want to get off fast. But it’ll be so much better if it’s slow and difficult and at Ronan’s direction.

"Yeah," Ronan says. "Yeah, I really do. I don't think you've waited enough today. I think you need to wait for _me_."

Fuck. _Yes_.

"Maybe," he says out loud. "What's in it for me?"

He's not sure Ronan's in the mood for him to get bratty; he can dial it back, if Ronan wants. But he's been on edge half the day, and it feels good to prod him.

"I think you know," Ronan says, in that low sure way that always goes straight to Lovett's dick. "I can be very persuasive."

“I’m open to being persuaded,” Lovett says. “But I want to know how—oh, fuck.” Ronan startles. “My mom is calling. Lemme, uh. Hang on.”

He’s not taking any chances; he tilts the phone towards the ceiling before hitting the ignore call button, just in case. “Okay. Sorry. Uh, where were we?”

Ronan's mouth is twitching with amusement. "Problem?"

"Yeah, I've got a problem," Lovett says, shifting. "My boyfriend won't tell me what he's going to do for me and I haven't got to see his dick yet."

Ronan glances down, the phone not following the movement. “Hmm,” he says. “And maybe you won’t get to, if you aren’t behaving yourself. Here’s something to do: get your shirt off. Don’t put the phone down.”

"How—hang on—" Lovett narrowly avoids hitting himself in the face with his phone but then gets his shirt stuck half off his head. "Fucking—"

Ronan is audibly laughing, a wheezy sort of uncontrolled cackle that’s only getting louder as Lovett struggles. “Okay, that’s somewhat less hot than I was expecting,” Ronan chokes out between chuckles. “You can put the phone down for a sec, Jon, it’s fine. Untangle yourself.”

Lovett just drops it, not really keeping track of how it lands, wrestling his shirt off. He can feel his hair going static; he knows his face is flushed from the struggle, from having his arms up.

"There," he says, "is that what you wanted?" There's no answer. "Ronan?"

He picks the phone up and—god, the fucking phone has cut out.

“The universe does not want me to have this fucking orgasm,” he mutters, and swipes to redial. It rings busy—busy? For fuck’s sake. What, did his mom call Ronan to chat when he ducked her call?

He drops the phone and scrubs a hand over his face. He’s not even fully hard anymore. Maybe they should just give up on this for tonight.

He tries again but gets the same busy signal. He's left with this restless energy, still turned on but sort of suspended by it, in a limbo, not enough to keep going on his own but probably too amped up to stop.

His phone lights up with a message.

_sorry, the signal's dropping out and I can't call back?_

_hang on_

_while you're waiting, jon, I want you to start touching yourself. slowly. not the head, not yet._

Well—sure.

He wraps a few fingers around his dick, knowing from long experience what Ronan wants, even if he’s not actually being observed right now. With his free hand, he painstakingly types out _send me a pic_.

Ronan's not watching now, has no way of knowing what Lovett's doing, but Lovett goes slow anyway, does what he's been told. Some of the frustration in his body starts to sink away as he strokes himself, slow, a promise of more when Ronan decides.

Ronan sends a picture. His face is notably not in it.

Lovett swallows, looking at it. He’s seen Ronan’s hand on his cock a thousand times, but it never gets old. He wants to see more; he wants Ronan’s voice, and his face, and the next thing he’ll ask Lovett to do.

 _slow down_ , Ronan sends, straight after, and Lovett hadn't even noticed himself picking up the pace, stroking himself faster. Ronan knew he would though, which is just—so fucking hot.

 _then what?_ Lovett types. _what next?_

 _scratch your chest for me_ , Ronan sends. Lovett smiles, thinking about the way Ronan likes it, nails scraping across Lovett’s torso, catching “accidentally” on his nipple. Ronan likes to hear Lovett hiss when it’s a little bit too much.

Neither of them have nails to speak of but Lovett does what he's told anyway, scratching across his chest, through his chest hair—Ronan likes that too—and makes a sound probably too loud for a hotel room when his nail catches a nipple, just the edge.

 _doing it_ , he types, slowly. His cock, neglected, aches a little.

The phone rings—not FaceTime, but it’s Ronan at least. Phone sex works for Lovett, if he can’t have better. “Hey,” he says.

“You sound worked up.” Ronan sounds pleased and warm and god, Lovett’s hard as nails suddenly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. What should I do now?”

"Keep doing what you're doing," Ronan tells him. Lovett can hear the sound of a cap being flicked open in the background: lube, presumably, and fuck, that's an image. "You don't get anything else yet."

“The—scratching, or—“

“Both,” Ronan says. “Tuck the phone under your ear. I’m dropping the one-hand thing.” He pauses. “I’m not dropping making you wait. Don’t come, Jonathan.”

"I—god—" It's immediately ten times more difficult to keep going as slowly as Ronan asked, knowing that he can't speed up. He tucks the phone by his ear like Ronan said, and flicks the edge of one thumbnail across his nipple again, makes a stifled sort of grunt at the fleeting moment of sharpness. From the other end of the phone, he hears Ronan sigh out, pleased.

“I love when you make those little startled sounds,” Ronan says. “You’re so easy for the smallest touches. It makes me want to always be touching you.”

“I want you to always be touching me,” Lovett says. “Fuck, you gotta—I need more.”

“You’re fine,” Ronan tells him, firmly. “You can scratch your thighs, too, if you want. The back of your neck.”

Thighs are probably a fairly common thing for people to be into but Lovett's never slept with anyone who reacts the way he does to a scrape of nails of the nape of his neck. It undoes him, takes him to bits.

He puts it off, for the anticipation and because Ronan wants him to not come, which is going to be a lot fucking harder if he scrapes his nails over the back of his neck. “Tell me what you’re doing,” he says, scratching his thighs instead, sighing from the pleasure of it.

“This is about you,” Ronan tells him, but then relents enough to say, “Mostly just jerking off. Some—I’ve got lube with me, so some light fingering, but mostly I’m being lazy. It’s nice.”

Lovett huffs out a laugh. If he looks, he can see pink marks on the insides on his thighs, faint and fading but there. "Nice, huh?"

"Yeah," Ronan says. "And I can come when I want. It's pretty great."

Lovett groans, loud and showy, a fuck-you-but-I-love-you kind of a groan. “I could, too, if some guy in another state wasn’t on a power trip about it.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re into my power trip.”

"Ugh," Lovett says. "I really am." He scratches lightly at his thighs again and jerks on the bed, has to grab for his phone before it falls from his shoulder. "God, fuck."

“Is it—tell me what you’re doing,” Ronan says. He’s breathy, excited. “Tell me how much you like it.”

“My thighs,” Lovett says. “It feels—yeah, good. Tingly. Not as good as when you do it, but, you know. The biofeedback part of touching myself is good, obviously.” He pauses. “I’d like some more biofeedback on my dick, if that’s on the table—“

"Not yet," Ronan tells him, and Lovett's groan this time is a little more sincere. "You're not ready for it yet."

"I really fucking am," Lovett says, but forces his body to relax. "Okay. Keep—talking?"

“Yeah. If I could see you, I bet you’d be starting to look—needy, a little desperate. That looks so good on you, Jon. When you squirm and your cock starts dripping precome and you start rolling your hips, even if there’s no friction in range. Like you just come down to this primal urge to fuck. That’s—I love that. You’re not there yet, though. You haven’t even touched your neck yet.” 

"I—god—" Lovett's breath is getting labored. " _Someone_ hasn't let me yet."

He is getting needy; his whole body feels on edge, anticipatory. He's keeping his hips still by force of will more than anything else.

“You can,” Ronan says. “Do it now, I want to hear you. That noise you make—it always gets me hard.”

“If you’re not hard already, we’re doing this wrong,” Lovett quips, but then he sucks in a breath and scrapes the corners of his nails down the back of his neck.

He doesn't even have to play up the noise that startles out of him: his nails are sharp and blunt on his skin, just the right edge of pain on the sensitive skin at the back of his neck, and Ronan is _listening_ , and, fuck, oh fuck, oh god—and suddenly he's panting, desperate for real.

“Fuck, Ronan, can—“ The sound from the phone suddenly changes, too quiet. Lovett had been hearing a steady rhythm of slick noises, muffled but unmistakable, and Ronan’s breathing.

He forces his hand off his cock and grabs for the phone where it’s held on his opposite shoulder. “Motherfuck.” The call’s ended, somehow. Maybe Lovett’s face hung up on it, but he doesn’t think so.

He hits redial but he just gets a busy signal. He's so—he could just—it wouldn't take much, he could _just_ —

—he grabs for the base of his cock and wills himself not to come. Not until Ronan says he can.

His voice is a mess when he answers Ronan's FaceTime request, pitching everywhere. He's almost afraid to breathe too deeply in case that sets him off. "I almost," he blurts, "I'm so—"

“Fuck,” Ronan says. “Tell me about it?”

“My—neck, and you listening—god. We haven’t done just the phone in a while, I forgot how intimate it can get.” Talking is calming him down a little, keeping him from going over the edge. “You, hearing everything.”

“Fuck. And now I can see, too, so—show me.”

Lovett can do that. He can show Ronan what he wants to see. "What do you want?" he asks. He's starting to get the high of it, of giving over to Ronan. "My—"

"Show me your dick," Ronan says. His voice catches: Lovett can hear the slick sounds of him jerking off again. _God_ . "I want to see you leaking. And then I want to watch you scratch your neck for me. I want to watch how your faces screws up."

Lovett has to squeeze himself again, just from Ronan’s words. He tilts the phone down, shaky in his hand, so Ronan can see his cock. “So fucking hard for you,” Lovett tells him. His own voice sounds gritty and strange, deep with need. “I need to come, Ronan.”

“Not yet,” Ronan tells him. Lovett can hear the way he’s speeding up his own strokes, the catch in his breathing. “Christ. You look so good, Jon.”

Lovett's cock twitches at that, and, fuck, how could it not. "I like to look good for you," he grits out. The camera isn't on his face; it's easier to say. "Like you to like it."

"I love it," Ronan says. "Scratch your neck for me, baby, let me see. Let me make you feel good."

Lovett’s hand is more than shaking as he lifts the phone back up, anticipating. He’s not sure how Ronan’s avoiding seasickness, but he holds it up and looks Ronan in the eye. “I might—I might come from this,” he admits. “I don’t know.”

"I do," Ronan says, confidently. "Not until after. You can make it."

"I—"

"Right after," Ronan promises. His pace has picked up: even if Lovett couldn't hear the slick sounds of his hand on his cock, he'd be able to tell by the colour splotching over Ronan's cheekbones, the timbre of his voice. "I'll tell you. I've got you, Jon."

“Fuck,” Lovett says, and lifts his hand up to the back of his neck again. He thinks for a fleeting second about half-assing it, to make it easy on himself. He drops the idea, closes his eyes and just does it, scratching lines across his nape that reverberate in his lower belly, in his needy cock.

"Ah—ah god, ah—" Lovett can't keep quiet, can't keep still. His neck stings, his belly tightens, his cock—he needs, god, he needs—

“Hang on for, ah, for me, sweetheart,” Ronan says, and Lovett tenses every muscle he still has conscious control over, trying. The desperate, full-speed sound of Ronan jacking himself isn’t helping, especially when Ronan’s phone arm dips enough that Lovett can see as well as hear the show. “I—Jonathan—“

Ronan comes, hips jerking up toward his hand, and there’s a sharp gasp before he says, finally, fucking finally, “Come—“

Lovett gulps for air, jerks himself one more time, and he's coming, feels like he's been coming from the second Ronan told him to. He keeps hold of the phone, at least, but he doesn't know what view Ronan is getting at all.

"Fuck," Ronan breathes. "Oh god, that's it. That's so fucking good. You're so good."

Lovett rides the release of it, and the pleasure of Ronan’s words, and eventually gets the phone back up to face level as he slumps backwards onto the pillow. “Good, uh. Good one. Considering the technical difficulties.”

Ronan laughs. “Clean up before you pass out, Jon. I don’t want one of your morning ‘this is your fault’ texts when you’re glued to the sheets.”

"It's definitely your fault," Lovett says. "You did this. You, uh, orchestrated this. And conducted it. A man of many talents." His breathing is starting to even out, with effort. He's starting to be aware of the mess he's made of the hotel sheets but he's not ready to think about that yet.

“None of which is tech support. This might still cut out.” Ronan settles himself back, too, looking relaxed and cuddly on their bed.

“Show me the view then, while I can still see.” Ronan starts to tilt the phone downward, but he’s laughing before Lovett even says, “You know I mean the city, you asshole— _your_ skyscraper is probably demolished by now.”

"You love my skyscraper," Ronan says, still laughing, but angles the phone over so Lovett gets a view of New York out of Ronan's big windows. That never gets old either.

"I should have a week free at the end of the month," Lovett says. "Do you think that view will wait?"

“Hard to say,” Ronan says, voice still teasing. “You’d better call and check in with it regularly.”

“Because I never call,” Lovett agrees.

“Never write,” Ronan chimes in.

“I’m so quiet and distant.”

“A monk under a vow of silence.”

"Easy to overlook, some might say."

"No," Ronan says, warmly. He brings the phone back so Lovett can see his face again, flushed and sated and happy. "No, I don't think they could."

***

Lovett’s phone rings while he’s in the shower. When he thinks about it, later, it was odd that he got out to answer it, scrubbing the soap out of his face with a towel. Maybe, somehow, he knew he was needed.

“—Times is going to publish,” Ronan says, or at least Lovett thinks that’s what he says. He’s crying in huge, hitching gasps; it’s almost impossible to tell. “All of this—this fucking year—is—was a waste, Jon. No one’s ever going to even know about my work or the, the—“ He stops, breathing so ragged in Lovett’s ear that Lovett’s scared for his lungs.

"Hey, hey," he says, trying to sound calmer than he feels. He's never heard Ronan like this, not once. "Where are you? Can you tell me?"

“I—cab,” Ronan sniffles. He blows his nose, very close to the phone, and Lovett makes a face. “60th and Broadway.”

“Okay. Take a deep breath, okay?”

Ronan doesn’t listen. He launches into it again. “They’re—everything I’ve done has been—a waste—this whole—year—they’re scooping me, and I—I shouldn’t have—I could have done—I aimed too fucking high, Jon.” He blows his nose again, and hiccups. “I’m too fucking arrogant, this story has destroyed careers and I don’t even—have a career to—lose—“ He breaks down again, choking sobs that make Lovett ache to hold him.

Lovett sits down on the end of his bed, clutching the phone close. Pundit comes and wuffles at his feet, concerned, and he reaches down to scratch the back of her neck. He can comfort her, at least.

"Sweetheart," he says, and Ronan hiccups horribly, gasping for breath. "Ronan, okay, we're—we're going to talk about all of this, okay?" He pauses, listening to Ronan break his heart on the other end of the phone. Lovett hasn't felt this useless in a long time. "First you're going to tip that driver really well though," he says, and Ronan snots out a laugh, shakily. 

“That’s it,” Lovett tells him. “Breathe, okay? If you pass out in the back of the cab you’re really gonna need to pass him, like, at least a cool hundo.”

“Don’t say hundo,” Ronan retorts, broken up but audible, and it’s enough to let Lovett breathe. Ronan will be okay. “God. I’m—everything is ruined, Jon. No one’s ever going to even know that I worked for a year on this—I’ll never get another job in journalism—I’ve wasted David’s time and trust and—“

"No," Lovett says, firmly. "You haven't. You absolutely haven't." Ronan is still crying, breath hitching over the phone. " _No._ "

"And I—the book, they've pulled the—and those _women_ —"

"Ronan." Lovett has never wanted to climb through a phone more. He wants to shove himself through it and pop out in the back of that cab, wants to pull Ronan against him and hold him and not let the world have him back until he's happy to see it again.

“I stretched too far—I thought I could do what everyone else couldn’t—“

“You can. Obviously it can be done,” Lovett says, as gently as he can, “or the Times wouldn’t be moving forward. Right?”

Ronan cries harder, but Lovett tries again. “Have you talked to David? Just because they’re publishing doesn’t mean your story is dead. Didn’t—“ He pauses, thinking, horribly, about wire taps and spies. “Didn’t at least one of your sources only speak to you? That’s news, isn’t it? Even if the Times has other, uh, people.”

Ronan sniffs hard, and coughs out a breath. "I, uh." Lovett can hear him trying to think, to try and concentrate on something that isn't all-consuming panic, or misery. "I—yeah. That's—yes, that's right. God, Jon." His voice breaks, and he coughs again, wet and miserable. "Yes. There's a couple of, of exclusive sources."

“And the audio,” Lovett says. “Does the Times have that?”

“Not—“ Ronan takes a long, ragged breath. “No.”

“After we get off the phone,” Lovett says, “I want you to call David. Or—where are you going? In the cab?”

“To see David,” Ronan says, half laugh and half sniffle. “So that one’s—yeah.”

"Okay," Lovett says. He feels weirdly calm in a way that means he's probably going to feel very not calm as soon as he's off the phone, as soon as he's not the one centred thing Ronan has to anchor him. "Good, that's good. Are you going—" he almost says _home_ , but of course Ronan isn't going home "—back to, uh, the hotel after?"

“I—probably. I don’t know. I might go to the farm, if—if it’s all—“ His breath hitches again, and he gives up on the rest of the sentence. Lovett thinks he can fill it in.

“It’s not. It’s not over, Ronan. Go talk to David and make a plan, okay? And whatever happens, you’re still—you’re a crusader. I don’t care if no one else ever knows. They will, but you are, either way. You did this. You helped these—uh, sources. You’re helping and I know you’ll always be out there helping, no matter what.”

Ronan sobs again, tiredly. "Jon," he says, and just like that, Lovett has made up his mind.

"All right," he says, and makes a grab for his laptop, open on the edge of the bed. "Okay. I'm getting on a plane. I'll be there tonight."

“You can’t,” Ronan says, but everything about his tone says _please do it anyway_.

Lovett can’t, except that he can. Except that this is what money and youthful vigor are good for, if they’re good for anything: for being at Ronan’s side as fast as he can get there, even if he’ll have to jump on another plane back first thing in the morning. “Too late. I’m already booking a flight.”

Ronan doesn't say anything. Lovett can hear him trying to haul his breathing steady; by the time Ronan speaks again, Lovett's booked a seat.

"I'm landing at six," he says. "I'll be with you so soon, okay? You just have to go see David, and I'll get on a plane, and I'll be with you. I'll be there."

“—and I wasn’t kidding about tipping the driver,” Lovett adds, needing to hear Ronan laugh again. “This still might call for that hundo. Depends whether you had tissues with you or not. If he’s had to watch you wipe your nose on your sleeve this whole time—“

Ronan’s snorted laughter interrupts him, and Lovett lets the bit drop. “Text me after you talk to David,” he says instead. “Or call, but I’ll be on a plane in like—a stupidly short period of time. I’m gonna make it, though. I’m coming, okay? I’ll see you at the hotel.”

"I love you," Ronan says, so quietly. "I—god. Thank you."

"Shut up," Lovett says, just as quietly, feeling himself blush. God, even after all these years. Ronan sounds better now, calmer, even though his voice is shot to pieces. Lovett wishes hard for teleportation again, just in case. "Stop thanking me for stuff you don't need to."

“Never,” Ronan says. “Not in a million years.”

“You’re a sap,” Lovett tells him, feeling warmed through by the certainty of Ronan’s tone. “I have to get to the airport. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah. I’ll—we’ll get pizza from the place you like on 3rd.”

"Maybe I'll let you pick a topping," Lovett says, knowing they both know it's a lie. Pundit is licking his ankle now, which reminds him: he needs to drop her with Jon and Emily on his way to the airport.

Ronan blows his nose again, just as grossly as before. "Gross," Lovett tells him, and gets another laugh. He can hear the cab slowing.

“Go talk to David,” Lovett says. “I’m going to the airport now. No more sappy stuff. I’m hanging up. I love you. Tip him. Bye.” Lovett clicks to end the call before Ronan can say anything more, although he catches a low laugh just before the line goes dead.

“Okay, Pundit,” he tells her. “Spa weekend for you. I’ve got somewhere important to be.”

***

The traffic is worse than Ronan was expecting but he can work with it, even though Lovett already sounds ramped up and needy.

"Fucking—FaceTime me," Lovett pants. "C'mon."

“Nuh-uh,” Ronan says, hoping for about the sixtieth time that the privacy panel in this towncar is reasonably soundproof. “Not yet. Want you to earn it, how’s that sound? Can you be good for me? Hold off as long as I want.”

“I could hold on a lot easier if I could see you,” Lovett says, which is a dirty lie and they both know it.

"Sure," Ronan says, grinning, "sure you could. Just hold on for me anyway."

Lovett makes a frustrated noise, but Ronan can hear the slick sounds of him jerking off slow down. He looks out of the window. Not far to go.

"I really," Lovett says, voice tight. "Fuck."

“Stop,” Ronan says, having a sudden want. He can’t work himself open in the back of this car, but Lovett can. He shifts on the seat, palms himself briefly and guiltily. “Take your hand off your dick, Jon. Want you to open yourself up. Tell me how it feels.”

Lovett swears, voice rough. "You're a fucking torment," he says. Ronan can hear him uncapping the lube again, squirting some out. He hears the soft sound Lovett makes when he first brushes his hole—the same every time, whether he's doing it or Ronan is for him. It goes straight to Ronan's dick.

“Tell me,” Ronan prompts. He’s so fucking hard, and traffic has slowed to a crawl again. “Is it good?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s—I’m going slow,” Lovett says. “Because someone is the world’s biggest cockblock.”

“I prefer cockdelay,” Ronan tells him, letting the warmth he’s feeling fill his voice. 

"How many fingers?"

There's a hitch in Lovett's voice now, one he can never fake, the one he used to be embarrassed about. "I'm starting with—with two," he says. "Too—too worked up for one."

“Yeah,” Ronan says, breathing it out. He can picture it so clearly. Lovett likes to lie back to finger himself, one leg to his chest; he’ll have his head tipped back, focused on enjoying himself. “I want—want you to get nice and open. Just shallow. Get a third finger in.”

“If you’re gonna make me get up for a toy, I’m hanging up on you,” Lovett says. “And you should fucking FaceTime me. I miss your stupid face, okay? I’ll admit it.” 

"Not yet," Ronan says. This was all his idea, and it's definitely going to be worth it, but it does feel more than a little like he's torturing himself as well. "You're not close enough yet."

Lovett huffs out a laugh. "I'm pretty fucking close."

Ronan looks out the window again. So is he.

“Where are you? Bedroom or couch?”

“I—bedroom,” Lovett says. “The better to stretch out and, you know, Skype, except my boyfriend is the wrong kind of sadist today—“

“Uh-huh,” Ronan says. “One sec. Keep opening yourself up, I’ll be right back.” He mutes the phone long enough to pay for the car and step out on their curb.

"Right back?" Lovett repeats. He's probably trying to sound more indignant than he does: in fairness, it's pretty difficult to sound indignant when you're fingering yourself. "What, have you got something better to do?"

Ronan fishes his keys out of his pocket, making sure to keep his back turned to the car. No one needs to see how fucking hard he is right now.

He unmutes his phone. "Hang on," he says.

“‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘Hang on.’ Like I’m chopped liver, lying here with my—are _you_ getting a toy? You’re being suspiciously coy about your own—“ Lovett pauses. Ronan knows exactly why, because he just let himself in, and Pundit is jumping and barking at his legs.

“Stay there,” Ronan says, knowing he’s giving the game away. “I’ll put her out back.”

"You'll—" and Ronan hangs up, hurries Pundit out to the back garden. He fusses her a little, tells her he'll be back so soon, and goes back in, washes his hands fast at the kitchen sink.

“Get in here, Farrow!” Lovett shouts, voice a little strangled. Ronan doesn’t kid himself that’s arousal; it’s emotion, surprise and happiness. He knows Jonathan, and he knows what joy sounds like in his voice.

Ronan speeds his steps to the bedroom, wanting to see and touch, wanting the fullness of the surprise to come to fruition.

Lovett is exactly where Ronan imagined he was, splayed across the middle of the bed, one knee bent, fingers still inside himself. He's naked, the way Ronan had asked him to be, chest pink and heaving. He's the best thing Ronan's ever seen, Jesus Christ.

"You look fucking incredible," Ronan manages.

“You look like a filthy liar,” Lovett says, breathless. “Get over here right now.”

Ronan can do that. He shucks his shirt on the way, and climbs up to blanket Lovett’s body until he can press kisses to his mouth and his cheeks and his jaw. “Missed you,” he says. “Good surprise?”

"Such a—fuck—such a good surprise and you know it." Lovett is arching up into him, rubbing himself against Ronan's bare stomach. "Ronan—please—"

He really must be close. Lovett doesn't usually beg after a couple of kisses, a nip at his throat. 

Getting out of his slacks without losing contact with Lovett’s skin is less than artful, but he gets his briefs off with them, and then Lovett’s guiding him in. Lovett’s clearly not waiting any longer, and Ronan can roll with that, with the hot softness of Lovett’s body, wet and open for him just like Ronan had asked.

“You’re perfect,” he mumbles, and rolls his hips.

Lovett gasps, and grabs at Ronan's back. "God," he says. "You—keep—you're _here_ —"

Ronan braces himself on his forearms and really just lets himself go, thrust up into Lovett and listen to him groan, feel him clench around him. "I missed you," Ronan blurts. "I missed you so much."

“I can tell,” Lovett tells him, not quite hitting sardonic. He sounds earnest, instead, and happy, and really fucking close.

“Hold on for me, sweetheart. You can wait. I know you can wait.”

"I've _been_ waiting," Lovett says, gasping. "I've been waiting since you called, I've been—fuck, oh _fuck_ —"

"Hold on," Ronan says, "you can do it, I know you can do it, you're so good. You're so good, Jon, you're so—" his hips are jerking, his belly tightening. Lovett smells so _good_ and he's _here_.

Here in their bed, in their new house, in the California sun, with Lovett scratching up his back in desperation—it’s easy, easy, easy for Ronan to come, letting all of it flood through him. “Love you,” he gasps, clutching Lovett tighter.

Lovett's dick is rubbing slick and desperate between them. "Ronan, I'm—I'm not going to—"

Ronan's still twitching, still breathing hard, but not too sensitive yet, can keep giving Lovett what he needs. He thrusts in again hard, and Lovett nearly sobs, frantic, clearly holding on. "You can," Ronan tells him, "you—give it to me, Jon."

Lovett sucks in air, loud and sharp in Ronan’s ear, and then he’s squeezing down on Ronan’s cock, on his hips, on the skin of his back, every part of Lovett clinging to Ronan like he’ll never let go. There’s warm wet between them, smearing both of their bellies. 

"Don't pull out," Lovett gasps, still clinging to him. "Don't—stay for a second, just like this. Just—" and he tugs until Ronan drops down, nuzzles at the curve of Lovett's sweaty neck, the two of them a damp sticky mess, tangled together.

Ronan hasn’t paused to breathe since he got here—since the airport, really. He can breathe now, can pause and just take in the scent of Lovett, the warmth of his body. “I gotta,” he says, and pulls out with a sigh, but stays where he is otherwise. Lovett’s legs relax around him, ready to lay here for a while. Long enough to get stuck together, maybe.

Lovett nuzzles in at him, stroking his hand over Ronan's back. They're both breathing hard, and the bedroom smells so much of sex, and Ronan doesn't want to be anywhere else, at all.

“How long are you here?” Lovett asks, finally pushing to roll Ronan off of him. Ronan stays close, only transferring his weight to the mattress so Lovett can breathe.

“Two weeks, I think. Then Denver for a couple days, then back here.”

They’ve talked about it, here and there. They wouldn’t have bought the house if Ronan wasn’t going to be around more. But he still hears the caught breath of Lovett really hearing him, that he’s going to be here, now.

Lovett curls closer somehow, still sweat-damp, sticky. "Well," he says. "Good. The laundry needs doing and you know I forget."

Ronan smiles into Lovett's curls. "I guess I can help with that."

"'Help,' he says," Lovett mumbles. "You have to go get Pundit now. You know she likes to cuddle with us."

Ronan feels a smile spreading into his cheeks, and levers himself up. He tosses Lovett a cloth before he goes to let Pundit back in, and wipes himself down at the kitchen sink.

Pundit never really cares about whatever state of dress or undress they’re in, just leaps up at them, and right now she puts her little scrabbly paws up on his bare thigh and Ronan dodges, making sure she doesn't hit anything sensitive, and scoops her up. "Hi baby girl," he says, and carries her to Lovett.

"Hand over the puppy and nobody gets hurt," Lovett tells him, as soon as he walks back into the bedroom. Lovett's got the sheets tucked up around him now, and it's easy to hand a limp, happy Pundit over. She's such an easy dog; they really lucked out with her. It's been one of the nice things, lately, thinking about living with her more of the time.

He takes a second to look at Lovett and Pundit on the bed, curls and laughter and familiarity. It's—they're his. His home.

Lovett is distracted, so Ronan leaps onto him, not enough to hurt but definitely enough to startle, and bites his nose, because the occasion seems to call for it.

Lovett laughs loud enough to bring the roof down, and tries to bite Ronan’s nose in return, and Pundit smartly exits the scene of battle long before they declare a truce.

“You’re so ridiculous,” Lovett says, finally, when they’re lax again, cuddled, tangled in the sheets.

“You love it.”

"I can neither confirm or deny those charges," Lovett says, and pokes him in the side until he starts laughing again. "You can't lawyer me into a confession that easily."

“You looove it,” Ronan insists, drawing out the word. “You’re completely twitterpated for my ridiculousness.”

“I admire, at a respectful reserve, the workings of your well-honed brain—“ Lovett starts, in a fairly bad British accent, and Ronan leans closer and licks his nose. He continues on, gamely: “—and those, ah, those most notable turns of phrase in your rhetoric—“

“Oh, if podcast royalty is praising my rhetoric, that’s really something.” 

"Exactly," Lovett says, wriggling away, grinning, "you are, you are—oh my god, why, why are you—" and dissolves into laughter, batting at Ronan as he dives back in to lick Lovett's nose again.

Lovett rolls them over and pins Ronan to the mattress, new muscles hard at work. Ronan can’t say he doesn’t like it. “You’re a menace,” Lovett tells him, and then leans down and kisses Ronan’s eyelids, his cheekbones, his temples. It doesn’t exactly match the words, or the firm grip on his elbows, but Ronan isn’t going to stop him.

"I'm getting mixed messages," Ronan tells him, and makes a feint at getting up. Lovett keeps him pinned— _Christ_ —and Ronan turns his head and licks at the bit of Lovett's arm he can reach. When Lovett yelps, Ronan takes full advantage of his distraction and—tickles him.

Lovett folds like a cheap rug when tickling is judiciously applied, and today is no exception. Ronan’s able to roll him sideways, keeping him giggling and gasping for air, until Lovett finally calls uncle.

“You’re a child,” Lovett tells him, still breathless, still laughing.

“I heard a joke I wanted to tell you,” Ronan says, instead of parrying. “If you grew up in a family of math nerds, what do you have?”

Lovett groans happily and throws an arm over his face. "What _do_ you have?"

“Square roots,” Ronan announces, and Lovett groans even louder.

Pundit hops back up onto the bed, walking in close until Ronan can pull her against him and rub her belly. Lovett’s hand joins his in her fur.

“Thanks for the surprise,” Lovett says, softly.

The sun is still streaming in through the blinds. Lovett is warm and close and smiling at him, that small smile that's where his real love lives. Lovett's real feelings come out small, more shy than people expect.

“You deserve good surprises.” Ronan rolls Pundit onto Jon, then shifts himself closer. “I’m pretty much planning on giving you good surprises forever, as you well know.”

Lovett's mouth is twitching, small and happy. "That's a pretty big promise," he says. "I, uh, guess you must really mean it."

Lovett needs to hear things like that maybe more than the average person. Maybe just more than Ronan does; probably Lovett’s more average, really. But Ronan’s never minded saying them. “Yup,” he agrees. “Today, tomorrow, forty years from now—you get the gist. For one thing, we seem to have just bought this nice house I haven’t even gotten used to yet, so.”

"You can probably start by unpacking some of the shit in the office," Lovett says, like most of those boxes aren't half-full and also his.

“Mm-hmm,” he says instead of arguing. “If I get to listen to my music while I do it.”

“Your music is—“ Lovett cuts himself off before the usual friendly tirade against Ronan’s taste. “Yeah. Yeah. I missed hearing your stupid big-band shit.”

Pundit wuffles between them, wriggling happily. Lovett scritches her just at the scruff of her neck. "Pundit too," he says. "Both of us missed your inexplicable musical taste. And, uh. You. We missed you." He's not looking at Ronan as he says it, avoiding his eyes. Ronan ducks in to kiss him.

He doesn’t say, “I was gone for a week.” He doesn’t say, “this is the most we’ve been together in six years.” He says, “Good,” and means it.

Lovett kisses him again, over Pundit's head, and then his stomach rumbles, loudly.

"No lunch today?" Ronan asks.

" _Someone_ distracted me with sex," Lovett says. "Probably someone should, uh, make that up to me with tacos. Naming no investigative journalists."

"I see," Ronan says, grinning. Pundit barks happily between them, and Lovett is grinning up at him, and they both know Lovett is going to steal some of whatever Ronan has and claim he's practicing spousal privilege. God, it's—home. The home they built. "All right. You got it." Tacos are about the least of what he’d do for Lovett. “Tacos and fish quesadillas. And Red Dead Redemption.”

Lovett smiles wider. “Sounds like a plan.”


End file.
